


To Avoid a Scene

by AnontheNullifier



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A potential version of their first meeting, Angst with an ending of hope, F/M, Post-Civil War, Pre-Infinity War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:14:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23016841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnontheNullifier/pseuds/AnontheNullifier
Summary: Vision and Wanda meet for the first time after Leipzig.
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 21
Kudos: 46





	To Avoid a Scene

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote most of this two years ago while I was in Warsaw for work, some of it was written at this actual square. For years I meant to go back and finish it, but never did. So I know that we are well past "What happened between Civil War and Infinity War" and that there have been many versions of their first meeting, but I hope you are willing to read one more.

The uneven cobblestones cause an odd pressure against his soles, the rounded bumps jutting up at varying angles and depths creating a sense of uneasiness in his usually confident gait. His ankles react immediately, stabilizing him, and Vision discovers that the whole experience is charming in its simplicity, a new sensation he has not encountered before. The alley he traverses is narrow, rows of brightly painted houses snuggled close together, the colors random and appealing, some of the stucco sides trimmed with ornate patterns, while others have murals of royalty and piety. Vision reaches out a hand, trailing it over a basketball sized stone built into the wall of one of the houses (or perhaps the house was built around the stone, a philosophical debate only time travel might solve).

A group of young men round the corner, their presence instantly setting his body into a quiet terror, the disguise he’s wearing is new, only tested three times in public back in New York. Vision shoves his hands into his pants pockets, shoulders lifting defensively as he tucks his chin down, and he inches closer to the wall. The men don’t seem to notice him, or if they do there is no indication they think anything of his presence. He is almost clear of the group when one of them veers off, distracted by his phone, and Vision tenses as he fights the urge to phase his body through the man. Instead he allows their shoulders to bump, jostling the stranger slightly. “Przepraszam*.” Vision’s apology is quiet, worry about his accent being too off or his pronunciation horrific tempering the sureness that typically instills his voice. The man, thankfully, continues without another look and Vision releases a breath.

The alleyway gives way to a square, the same types of buildings, these colors perhaps more diverse and bright with their red shingled roofs, line the perimeter. In the middle of the square, atop the smaller, more even brick foundation, are white tents housing tables and chairs, lanterns hanging on posts next to each table while other, smaller string lights twine around the rods at the ceiling of the tent. It is serene, almost like a painting, the colors blending into a surreal and comforting conglomeration of twinkling lights and happy voices. An accordion player adds to the overall ambience, the music moderately paced and carefree, creating an almost fairytale-like quality. 

Among all of these lights somewhere is Wanda. 

It has been exactly 38 days since the Raft breakout, 38 days of relative silence in the compound, Tony occasionally conversing with him, mostly concerning Rhodes and finding Steve, but those moments are fleeting. Tracking down the rogue Avengers was not easy, nor did he necessarily follow the Accords’ protocol to locate them in Wakanda, particularly the part that stated once he found them he had to turn them in. Somehow he missed that step, instead amending his own internal protocol and contacting T’Challa. From there he received little news, thinly veiled comments suggested the fugitive teammates were fine but nothing truly substantial. He had attempted more pointed inquiries about Wanda, yet those were never answered. That is until he received a heavily encrypted and straightforward message - _Warsaw, Rynek Starego Miasta, 23rd of June, 21:00, disguise required - W._ He immediately destroyed all evidence of the message and then proceeded to convince Tony to allow him to follow a lead on Steve’s whereabouts. 

There are many things he hopes are connected to this invitation. First is that it means she had actually received his own communications. Second, that what he said in them was enough to convince her of his intentions, or lack of intentions to turn her back over to General Ross (another convenient breach from the Accords that should concern him, but silence and 38 days of thinking has changed his perceptions on the rigidness of loyalty to laws). Third, and this is perhaps the thought that causes the greatest increase in his pulse, the arhythmic beating of his heart deafening when he considers the possibility, perhaps she has missed him too. 

Vision methodically meanders around the perimeter of the tents, ocular sensors reprogrammed to specifically search out Wanda (and all the other fugitives). The facial recognition software was fine-tuned and updated courtesy of Stark for the purpose of being better able to find their teammates, though he doubts this meeting was the intended outcome of the upgrade. An invisible rope loops around his chest, squeezing the excess air from his lungs when he finally locates her, his heart drumming so quickly it clashes horribly with the rhythm of the accordion player in the square. His hands seek an even deeper refuge in his pockets, fingers clenching nervously as he approaches the blonde-haired hostess standing at the front of the tent, who smiles at him, “Dobry wieczór**.”

“I-“ Natasha, during the time when they were all together, before the Accords, always insisted on having a working knowledge of any language required for a mission. This did not mean being conversational but at least being aware of the tasks involved and having enough of a vocabulary to function within the constraints of the mission. Vision, unfortunately, did not factor in to his language acquisition that he would be meeting Wanda at a restaurant, he had assumed their meeting would be more clandestine. What he is never, ever, under any circumstance supposed to do in an undercover mission (not that he has actually been on such a mission but he has attended all the trainings) is betray his foreignness to the area. It’s a good thing Natasha is not here to see his utter failure. “I um, am meeting a friend.”

“Ah okay,” the woman smiles politely, transitioning into English while waving her hand towards the tables, “enjoy your meal.”

Vision offers a grateful smile and a “Dziękuję***” before winding slowly through the maze of diners until he sees her sitting at a two person table in the corner. 

A term he comes across often in reading books of varying styles and genres is having one’s heart in their mouth. It never quite made sense to him since it is anatomically impossible and quite an exaggeration and yet, currently, if not for his reliable physiological assessments that say otherwise, his heart is beating so furiously that it feels as if it has journeyed upwards to writhe anxiously on his tongue. He is overwhelmed at the sight of her, not fully convinced she is actually at the table, his mind attempting to rationalize that he may be hallucinating. The woman has strawberry blonde hair and is wearing warmer colors than he’s ever seen on Wanda. Yet the way the lantern next to the table illuminates her face, highlights her defined cheekbones and the gentle curve of her lips, glistens off the rings adorning her fingers, leaves little doubt that it is actually Wanda. Then she makes eye contact with him, the sly smirk on her face further cements it is her and he isn’t consciously aware of his feet continuing to move until he reaches the table. 

“Wanda…” her name trails off, his voice caught between ending at her name or continuing on to inform her it is him, given his vastly different appearance. She, in her typical fashion, rescues him from this awkwardness. 

A tight smile accompanies her, “Hi, Vision.” The message was clear on the time and place, thus it shouldn’t be a surprise she can logically conclude the blonde haired man standing in front of her is him, but he is still amazed at the seamless acceptance of his disguise. Wanda studies him with a detached sort of interest, one not nearly as warm as before the Accords. “Your mind feels different from everyone else.” The explanation is acceptable, the notion she sensed him with her powers stirs a longing inside him, a desire to feel the touch of scarlet in his mind, lose himself in the serenity of her presence. “You can sit.”

“Yes, sorry.” Vision’s hand trembles slightly as he pulls out the chair and lowers himself down. 

“That’s,” she points a finger at him, moving it up and down in the air, “a new look for you.”

One of the hardest normative behaviors to understand after he was created was the use of humor; the timing, the content, the tone, and the delivery all requiring numerous factors to determine the efficacy of the joke. He practiced so much with Wanda (she was the most willing to help him and he enjoyed her laughter the most) that he finds it comes naturally now, without thought. Vision pointedly plucks the polo he’s wearing. “I attempted to study Polish fashion in order to fit in.”

His victory is a minuscule smirk and an even less perceptible shake of her head before the amusement vanishes from her face, replaced by a reserved seriousness. “How does it work?”

Vision had not expected to need to speak so openly about his powers in such a place, his eyes reluctantly leaving Wanda’s face to assess the attention of those around them . No one seems at all interested in their conversation, far too lost in their own. So he turns back to Wanda and proceeds. “It is an integration of Mr. Stark’s,” she bristles at the name, something Vision would normally and politely point out, only he does not bemoan her it now and so he continues, “latest nanotechnology and my molecular manipulation. We have found the nanotechnology helps to stabilize my abilities for longer durations and also when I am caught off guard.”

“You’ve never lost your clothing by being surprised or,” she shrugs, head bobbing in time with her thoughts, “ever, actually, regardless of how long you were in them.”

“This is true, but the effort for a complete shift of appearance is significantly greater and requires a constant level of conscious awareness. The nanotechnology serves the role of my awareness, essentially.”

The waiter comes to the table, silencing Vision’s next thought, and places a white porcelain mug (that sits on a matching little saucer) along with a plate containing what looks to be a mix between an apple pie and a cake. The man turns towards Vision, “Dla ciebie****?”

Much to Vision’s appreciation, given his clearly poor preparation and the fact his mind cannot focus on anything other than the way the lantern casts shadows on Wanda’s face, Wanda saves him. “On nie jest głodny*****.”

A polite annoyance instills the nod of understanding, the man bowing slightly towards Wanda, “Smacznego******.”

“Dziękuję,” the friendly smile tugging the corners of her mouth up falls once the man is gone and it is just the two of them once more, “I assume you aren’t hungry.”

“Correct.” Vision is uncertain how to enter into the conversation he knows they should have, the polite, surface level words pleasant so far but he understands the wounds of their actions are far too deep to be alleviated by pleasantries. Yet, watching her wrap her fingers around the mug, lifting it to her face where she inhales the aromatic steam, a soft smile on her face, makes him want to remain right at this level of camaraderie. “You have a new look as well.”

She takes a sip, eyes watching him over the rim of the cup. “Yeah, Nat requires a new hair color every two weeks, new clothing needs to be cycled in periodically.” Another sip and still her eyes won’t leave him, something of a challenge forming on her face. “Luckily she said we can repeat colors once we run out of options.”

“Perhaps you will not need to do so for long.” The comment escapes before he can reel it back in, betraying the thoughts he’s had almost hourly since the airport. Vision understands (mostly, at least) the complicated relationship and clashing of ideology between Tony and Steve so he is well aware of the naivety of the statement. As is Wanda, whose demeanor slides from distantly warm to frigid, her eyes narrowing.

“Oh? You think we’re going to cave, agree to sign the Accords?”

Vision’s hands rise up slightly, palms facing her in hopes of conveying his apologies at the muddied intention of the comment. “No, not at all-“

“Is Ross rescinding them then?”

“No, I-“ 

The cup clinks defiantly against the saucer, her body bending forward as her voice lowers, likely to keep her anger hidden so the people around them won’t begin to take notice of the disruption to their pleasant evening, “Then why say it?”

If it was 45 days ago, Vision would consider reaching out, employing the tactile comfort he had only recently become more comfortable using with Wanda, but he knows it would be a mistake to do it now. There is an invisible but defined boundary between them, one he will not cross in fear of losing the potential of future meetings. This line is not just physical, clearly his words have set off alarms already. “Because I-“ the truth of his loneliness is undeniable though he isn’t certain if that will invoke more ire or if it would be well met, perhaps even reciprocated, “it is so different now.”

A commiserate nod goes along with her dry, “Very different.” 

The silence that encases their corner is bloated with all the words that need to be said, the truths of their actions and all that has befallen them. He even practiced his apology on his flight, stumbling over the growing list of regrets including his persistent guilt over keeping her at the compound, his decision to leave her on the tarmac to check on Rhodes, his inability to garner security clearance to see her at the Raft, and his cowardice in not shirking the rules earlier to get to her. None of that comes out though, the silence punctured only by the scrape of her fork and the distant disembodied conversations of the happy people around them. When he finally finds something to say it is embarrassingly empty. “What are you eating?”

“It’s szarlotka - apple pie.” 

A sense of deflation occurs at the answer, at the depth of conversation they are having. His hopes of deep understanding and reconciliation dropping away as the silence crawls back in. “Why did you wish to meet?”

Wanda puts the fork down.”Why did you try to contact me so many times?” So she did receive them.

“I-” Vision feels the eyes of the world on him, whether it is true or not, he always feels watched and judged. “Can we go somewhere more private?”

Her “No” is unflinching and then it morphs into a weapon, “I chose this place because you don’t like to make a scene.”

The depths of his missteps have haunted him, every decision that led them to this restaurant closes in on his mind as he realizes the severity of their severed trust. “I have no intention of sending you back to...” He can’t say it, not after the security videos he watched, after seeing the torture they put all of his teammates through, the worst of it always reserved for Wanda. “Please believe me.”

Wanda studies her nails, rubbing at the chipped polish on the tip of her thumb, returning to her prior question with a little less anger and an increased sense of desperation. “Why did you try to contact me so many times?”

This is the moment he has wanted, needed to experience, has spent hours and hours ruminating about what exactly he will say and how she will respond and whether she will smile at him and take his hand like she used to or if she will stand up in disgust and walk away, lost to him forever. A third option exists now, a possibility that she responds apathetically and then tells him it was nice to see him, the way old friends do in movies when they know this is the last time they will meet, too different now, too far along diverging paths for anything more to happen. Vision has no control over her reaction, something he has told himself over and over again. He only can control his own self. “Because I miss you.” She doesn’t stand in anger. “Because I have spent every minute since Clint came to the compound thinking about all of the harm I have caused you. I am ashamed of my behaviors and of the consequences I did not realize they would have.” Her face is not filled with apathy, instead it is a brimming with melancholy. “I needed to apologize to you.” It is a pathetic version of what he had scripted, less eloquent and verbose, having prepared separate apologies for each transgression. Except he can’t seem to remember his words around her, a factor he should have included in his calculations. 

“Thank you.” The weight of those two syllables is immense, the start of his atonement evident in the way she says it, without anger and without annoyance. 

The other factor in his prior correspondence attempts had been to assess her well-being, something he believed he may be able to do now given her less guarded tone. “How have you been doing?”

Immediately her countenance shifts, returning to a cool detachedness. “I’m surviving.” As she always does, her resilience awe-inspiring. “You should probably leave now.”

Vision has a feeling of his heart dropping down into his stomach, which is not true but he can’t seem to make his mind think otherwise. “Why? Was it something I said?” 

“No.” A fleeting curve pulls her mouth up. “I have to do a video check in with the others soon.”

“May I walk you back?” As he asks the question he is already aware of the answer. One brief conversation is not nearly enough to repair what has been done. If she already was worried for her safety, him knowing her actual location is too big of a danger. 

Wanda confirms his thinking, “No. I’m going to sit here by myself a bit longer and then see if I can get back safely.”

“Wanda I-” no doubt she believes there is an ambush, that he is the bait used to bring about her complacency before the others surround her and take her back. If meeting him at the restaurant was to avoid a scene, she will remain in public as long as she can. The best he can do is attempt to allay her fears, “I promise, no one else knows you are here.”

The stare she gives him is heartbreaking, stitched with threads of pity and skepticism. “I trust you, Vision,” words that fish his heart out of his stomach, giving it wings to flutter in his chest, “but I don’t trust Stark. How do you know he didn’t track you?” 

Immediately he thinks _Because I trust him_ and is glad when he does not actually say that, because even if he truly believes Stark would not do that, he cannot say it with 100% certainty. All of them have been greatly affected by the falling out of the Avengers. Suspicions and tensions are high. While Vision was corresponding with T’Challa, he and Tony had many carefully worded and suggestive conversations that always left a bitter taste in Vision’s mouth and a fear that Tony somehow knew. What if the upgrades with the sensors are relayed directly to Tony? What if he has been listening the entire time? Vision did a full body scan prior to coming and found nothing of concern. But it could be in the nanotechnology, it could be in his communicator, Tony could be waiting down the street to arrest Wanda. “I don’t.” A tight, forgiving line closes her mouth. “May I at least remain in the skies to ensure nothing comes for you?”

“I can’t really stop you from doing it.”

For the first time in a long time he genuinely smiles, an action she almost mimics completely. “I should go then.” Wanda nods, watching as he stands. This is where he should apologize once more, wish her luck and a safe night. “How did you know I had a disguise?” 

“I didn’t.” A whirlpool of questions swirls in his mind, unsure which one to pluck out. A pressure on his fingers calms the storm, his gaze turning down to see her lightly gripping his last two fingers, the disguise fading from the skin directly under her touch. “But I had a feeling you’d find a way to see me.”

Vision knows if he allows the surge of joy in his heart to rain from his eyes that it will cause a scene, so he tamps his hope and provides her with what he intends to be a friendly tone. “Good night, Wanda. May our paths cross again.”

The softness of her “Goodbye, Vizh,” remains in his mind for the rest of the evening as he hovers above the city, keeping a careful watch. 

**Author's Note:**

> *Przepraszam = Excuse me  
> **Dobry wieczór = Good evening  
> ***Dziękuję = Thank you  
> *****Dla ciebie = For you  
> *****On nie jest głodny = He is not hungry.  
> ******Smacznego = Bon appetit
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
